The Poetry Corner

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode LXXI.

By Thomas Moore

With twenty chords my lyre is hung, And while I wake them all for thee, Thou, O maiden, wild and young, Disportest in airy levity. The nursling fawn, that in some shade Its antlered mother leaves behind, Is not more wantonly afraid, More timid of the rustling wind!